


Queen of Nothing

by Hayjake1



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Execution, F/M, French Revolution, Imprisonment, Royalty, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 10:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15484101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hayjake1/pseuds/Hayjake1
Summary: A french Revolution AU featuring Lydia as a deposed queen who falls for revolutionary Stiles.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wrote like two years ago but just now posted. Unsure if i'll continue it, but for now enjoy! Thanks for reading!

Because they had everything, they were forced to take nothing.

  
It would have taken too long to sort out what to take and put it in the carriage, and her oh-so-brilliant husband said they didn’t have much time.

Lydia knew that was a lie; they didn’t have any time. She wanted to stay there, face the crowd, and let the guards escort them away peacefully.

But he didn’t listen.

The carriage had not gotten a mile from the palace when it was besieged. The crowd shook it so violently that she feared it would tip over. She wanted to open the doors, walk with their captors with heads held high, refuse to let anyone see fear on their faces.

But he didn’t listen.

They ripped the doors straight off and dragged her out, tearing her dress and yanking her hair while she cried and any hopes of appearing strong were gone. They pressed a blade to his throat and marched him out as they spit in his face, all the way to the court. She wanted to fall to her knees, beg not to be separated (lest they be seen alone and powerless), stare into their eyes and pray for just one sympathetic glance back while he did the same.

But he didn’t listen.

Instead Jacques chose to lecture them on authority and now they had none. Now they were cowards. Now they were traitors. Now they were thieves. Now they were doomed. She told him as much before they were taken to their cells.

He still didn’t listen.

The first week the cell was cold. And dark. And dirty. And quiet. She said she would not cry while the guard was there. But before the first week was over, the once luxurious Madame Lydia de la Martene had been crying nonstop and the rags they had given her were soaked through. Inside though, she was burning. Flames burned and danced in her soul, leaping out to singe any who would attempt to extinguish her. Her husband, the judge, the peasants, the guard who watched her through the night, In the end the flames began to boil her alive in her own tears and finally she screamed with such violent ferocity that the guard fell back, and before he could arise, she was there, crouched on the other side of the bars.

“Why do you wish to see me suffer? Is it not enough to see my soul caged, you must have me physically trapped as well? For the crime of living well, you would deprive me of the freedom you so desperately seek? I apologize I have not pleased the entire nation. I have a hard enough time pleasing myself. I could give every starving soul bread each day and still be blamed when one chokes! Please, I simply beg of you. Do not look on me with pity any longer. I don’t believe I can stand another second of it.” Her words poured forth; the ultimate declaration of her independence.

The guard moved to his feet looking quite abashed and with a timid voice said: “ I apologize, Madame. But it is not pity, it is just… you possess such a sad beauty when you cry.”

She was taken slightly aback by that, but remembering her courtesies, she replied “ You are kind to say so, Monsieur. If sorrow is beauty, then I can only improve from here on out. Even without my cosmetics.”

“Yes, the papers all list the expensive perfumes and powders found in your carriage as you fled.” He said with his face turning stern once more.

“Lies! I’m certain the true story has not been told accurately once!” She dried her eyes with the sleeve of her ragged dress.

He cocked an eyebrow in interest and leaned closer to the bars. “ Oh?” He said. “ Then tell it now, to me.”

So she did, recalling her fears and haste in fleeing despite her wishes to stay, and every horrid moment after they left.

And he listened.


	2. Chapter 1

Her time was not such suffering, after their conversation. Stilinitón- that is what he told her his name was, but he prefered for her to call him Stiles - passed the time by telling her stories of his father, who died in the Seven Years’ War when he was just an infant. She never talked back, just listened. His speech quickened to a rapid pace whenever they spoke, and his eyes went wild with excitement unmatched by anything she had ever seen. However, despite his assurances that her and her family had only been sequestered to placate the crowds, she feared the madness of the rabid masses that now lurked through the streets daily. 

The guards alternated each day and though she would never admit it, she was always saddened to awaken and find Stiles missing every other day. The other guard was not quite unpleasant, and he discomforted her greatly because of that. Stiles was special; from the other guard she expected coldness, yet she got none.  His name was Henri Macalle, though Stiles called him ‘Scout’ for some reason. She knew little of him beyond that. He stood outside her door through the day, always considerate when bringing her her meals, but he spoke little. He always smiled at her whenever her gaze began to wander through the chamber. She couldn’t bring herself to return his friendly gesture, and she occupied her time by thinking of ways to avoid him as much as she possibly could. He may have been amiable, but he was far from pleasant. She dreaded whenever he would come close; he reeked of the sweat and filth soaked into his unwashed peasant’s garb, and on more than one occasion she had seen him grab the mice with whom she shared her new residence, whether to torment or to cook she could not say. The worst was that grin though, the one he flashed at her constantly. She loathed that smile; not for the sickening appearance of the rotted peasant’s teeth that peeked out of his lips like a wolf’s snout, though that had unnerved her many times before. No, the most terrible thing in it was the sheer optimism behind it. The very idea of a happy ending did not dare enter her mind, yet this man, this buffoon, smiled at her as though everything were right. As though his being there and her being here was the most natural state of affairs he had witnessed. The one time he spoke to her beyond the customary pleasantries, he said, with such enthusiasm and belief in his voice “Don’t worry, Madame. Everything will be fine. Soon, we will all be free!” 

The queen puzzled over his words for hours. She feared it as a threat for so long that she began to shake. She thought to ask Stiles about it when he returned, but feared the possibility of a conspiracy. She resigned herself to the corners of her quarters, carefully watching Macalle shift from foot to foot. A small, white rat passed beneath his feet, and he plucked it from the ground as he often did. He took a few steps into the light cast down from the window to see better, and for once she watched intently, as he dug in his pocket all while the rat squirmed in his grip. Suddenly, she saw the creature go still, and just as she felt a gasp escape her, he turned to face her. Eyes fixed on his hands, the light perfectly illuminated the spectacle before her. The rat was still perched in his grimy hand, but it sat content as he stroked its head. From his pocket he pulled a small breadcrumb which he then presented to the rodent. Nibbling on its morsel, its red eyes met hers for just a brief second before it was gently set to the ground where it scurried off. Then she knew what his words meant. Macalle did not threaten her. He had not been teasing her. He truly believed that once everyone had calmed down, the revolution would end and they would all miraculously live a life of happiness. He believed in equality, brotherhood, and liberty. For that, she pitied him. 

Sometimes, if she awoke early enough she could hear Stiles arriving for his shift, and often Macalle would stay for an hour after. That hour, the chamber was always filled with laughter as the two of them talked, and she often found herself feigning sleep so she could listen carefully without them knowing. She came to love that hour, that blessed time when she felt like part of the world again. For that one time of day, she remembered the court and for once didn’t long for its long halls. She had traded her tea for water that even tasted of the disease of the streets, traded her wigs and combs for lice and tangles, traded the brainless, blushing ladies for two urchins who lived off the plundered goods of her former friends. And she finally felt at home.

It was during that entrancing hour one day, when the cold air of January had painted the walls of her stone cell with frost, that she awoke to find the chamber empty. Only then did the darkness reach out to grip her once more, and she sat frightened and alone. Through the walls she could hear cheers and the ringing of bells, but in her mind every celebration was the wail of a wounded woman, mocked and exiled from the world she once found dissatisfaction in, only to realize that her disgust and pity would continue to haunt her. And now her only reprieve, her only friends, her one and only Jacques, were not there to make her smile in the face of such cruel revelry. It was not until long after nightfall that she heard the shuffle of feet and saw Stiles enter the chamber, face haunted by dancing shadows in the torchlight.

Instantly she cried out “Oh! Where have you been? I feared you would not return. They cheer in the streets, does that mean a peace has been made? Am I to be returned to court?” With every word she began to hope that it was the opposite, that some new government had fallen or that Austria had been beaten back, never to come for her or her husband’s aid. 

Slowly lifting his head to meet her eyes, he showed no expression beyond the fortitude of his will as he answered with leaded words “King Jacques has been killed, at the will of the people of France. The Whittemeault dynasty has fallen.”

_ I am free _ was Lydia’s first thought, slowly usurped as the reality around her presented itself, by the much less cheerful   _ I am doomed. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you didn't catch it:
> 
> King Jacques Whittemeault - Jackson Whittemore  
> Henri 'Scout' Macalle - Scott McCall


End file.
